Tricks and Treats
by Owl-head
Summary: Milk, candy, and firefighters: all of the reasons why Sherlock Holmes hates Halloween. Thanks to Watson, Holmes may never entertain a costumed, chocolate-seeking child again. Watson blogs the full, rather unusual story of that fateful day. Short story.


**In honor of my favorite holiday, Halloween, here's a short little story I wrote- or, should I say ****_Watson_**** wrote-about everyone's favorite consulting detective. Please, enjoy...and, Happy Halloween!**

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From the Desk of John Watson, M.D.

Blog Dated 1 November 2012

Fall is such a beautiful time of year- the leaves are painted the vibrant colors of children's crayons, pumpkins gather on doorsteps, apple cider frequents storefronts, and Halloween invites thespians of all ages to take on a different identity. It's a fun, festive time of year for all. All except, of course, my dearest companion, Sherlock Holmes.

I didn't think it was possible for anyone to detest such a delightful time of year- that is, until yesterday. Sherlock and I were sitting at the kitchen table of our little flat at 221B Baker Street, me checking my email and him bent over a collection of unwrapped candy bars; Hershey's, Godiva, Lindt, and Ghirardelli were among the wrappers. My friend was, oddly enough, blindfolded. Systematically, he groped around for each piece of chocolate, poked it gingerly, then brought it to his nose.

Needless to say I was lacking in focus.

But, before I could ask him what _on earth_ he was doing, he seemed to read my mind. As always.

"You're probably wondering what I'm doing, aay, Watson?" Sherlock prompted, lifting his head.

"Do tell," I said, watching him curiously over my laptop.

He lifted the cover from his eyes, cursing the Nestle bar in his hand. Then, he regarded me. "I'm investigating the relationship between a bar's scent and its cocoa content. Theoretically, there _should_ be an exponential relationship for which I could derive an equation-"

"Isn't that kind of impossible? Trying to come up with an equation for chocolaty-ness?"

"For a mediocre brain like yours, _very_ impossible, Watson."

"Very funny," I muttered. His experiments always baffled me. I looked back down at my email, read. My girlfriend had sent me an invite to a costume party. I glanced back up. "Hey, Sherlock, what are you going to be for Halloween?"

"Halloween."

"Yes, you know: jack-o-lanterns, candy..."

"I don't have Alzheimer's, Watson. I know the one."

"What are you going to be?"

"Be? Why, I'm going to _be_ sitting here, sniffing chocolate. Thanks for asking."

"No, Sherlock," I laughed. "Dress up as. For Halloween?"

"What an _absurd_ question! By jigs, Watson, what was your purpose in proposing such a perfectly idiotic question?"

"Well," I said, fighting more laughter, "I figured, that, with your love of dress-up-"

"Dress up?" he spat. "What do you take me for, a five-year-old playing princess? I most certainly do _not_ 'play dress up'."

"Then, how do you explain your uncanny ability to change costumes in the midst of an investigation?"

"_Disguises_, Watson, they're _disguises_," my friend assured me. There was an agitated glint in his eye; he wasn't amused. In one swift motion, he pulled the blindfold back over his eyes. "There is a clear difference between _disguises_ and _costumes_."

"Oh, really?"

"Yes, Watson," he sighed, picking up a dark chocolate. "Disguises are meant to momentarily shield an identity, whereas costumes are just a frivolous attempt to-"

"But, Sherlock, half the time I can't tell it's you. How do you explain that?"

"That one is simple, Watson: your handicapped sense of observation."

"You're such a great roommate. _Really_," I muttered sarcastically, slammed my laptop shut. Then I added, rather icily, "You don't like Halloween, do you?"

"I think loathe would be more appropriate." He sniffed another specimen.

"I'd think you'd enjoy Halloween. It gives ordinary people the chance to be you for a day."

"Be me," he said matter-of-factly.

"Randomly change identities. Because, let's admit it, Sherlock, half the time your 'disguises' don't do much for an investigation besides make you look cool."

"You think I look cool, Watson?"

"Not in that blindfold. Wait, that's not what I-"

"It's alright, Watson. I am already well aware of my good looks. You don't have to inform me of something so obvious."

I stood up, slid out of my chair, and moved to the refrigerator. "But what _is_ it about Halloween that you hate so much?"

"What _isn't_ there to despise? The whole purpose of the day is to load children's blood with heavily concentrated levels of glucose and sucrose." He felt around on the table for his next randomly-selected victim, and gagged when he found out (by the smell) that it was a white chocolate.

"Which means-?" I poured a glass of milk and returned to my seat.

"Sugar, Watson. Candy. Every year, unassuming citizens are forced to empty their wallets in favor of highly-caloric rubbish, which ends up in the tiny clutches of thankless munchkins in plastic masks." Almost immediately, he added, "Oh, Absolutely not."

I watched my friend closely, puzzled. "'Absolutely not' _what_?"

Downstairs, as if on cue, I heard the doorbell ring. As usual, he'd used his expert observational skills to prematurely sense a presence outside.

I couldn't help chuckling. "Sherlock, aren't you going to answer that?"

My friend didn't flinch. He remained bent over his work. "I most certainly am not."

The bell rang again. Twice. Three times.

This time, he sighed audibly, looking incredibly flustered. Even under that blindfold.

I chuckled. "C'mon, Sherlock, it's just a doorbell."

When he didn't move, I sighed, too. "_Fine_, I'll answer it. But, you owe me." I slid my chair out from under the table to slip out.

But, apparently, I moved too fast. My glass of milk toppled over, blasting Sherlock with a milk mist and completely drenching his chocolaty specimen.

"_Bloody hell, Watson!" _he cried. As I stood up, I could now see that, not only his candy been drowned, but his shirt and lap were soaked with round stains.

I couldn't help laughing. "Sorry, Sherlock," I apologized quickly. Not that I really meant it; that'd been _hilarious_. I moved toward the door. The perfect opportunity to escape. "I'm going to answer this."

Leaving an angry Sherlock behind in the kitchen, I lunged for the door, where I was met with two small firefighters and what looked like their mother.

"_Trick-or-treat!_" The children exclaimed in unison. Looking past the pair, I could see groups of others walking up and down Baker Street in costumes. The trick-or-treat hours were just beginning.

"Hello, there," I greeted the kids warmly. I reached around the door, onto a shelf where I'd stowed the candy. Since I needed to prep for the party I was attending, I'd half expected Sherlock to take on this responsibility.

Then again, in one way or another, he already had. There wasn't a single piece of candy in the bowl. Sherlock had taken all of the chocolate for his experiment.

Cheeks flushed, I cracked a nervous smile. I spun around, called, "_Sherlock!"_ It was my turn to be upset. "You used all of the candy? That was supposed to be for the kids!" I couldn't believe he'd used _all of it_ for...

There was a sudden, loud thud from somewhere inside the flat. An exclamation of surprise. Then heavy, clumsy footsteps. Stumbling. Getting closer. Coming my way. Fast.

Of course, that was when he ran into me, head-on. We bashed noses, then I was hit straight in the head and knocked hard backwards into the wall. All I remember is looking back up, disoriented, and seeing the children's incredulous faces: mouths agape and eyes wide.

Sherlock was standing there, groaning from pain and stumbling in the doorway with his blindfold still on. He'd obviously tripped on something. Or a few things. And, as he groped for the door frame, I could still make out that milk stain. Right there, perfectly placed down the middle of his shirt and down his crotch.

At this point, the little firefighters (and their mother) were screaming, taking off down Baker Street. And dozens of other kids on the street had stopped to stare at us, horrified and speechless. Me with a bloody nose and Sherlock looking like he'd peed his pants.

I have to admit, that one was a little hard to explain to the bobbies, once they arrived. Because, there had been about three nine-one-one calls on account of that little accident on Baker Street. I've decided, rather resolutely, that, from now on, I think I'll just stick to Halloween parties. As for Sherlock, I suppose I can't blame him now, for hating Halloween. I've promised him that, from now on, I will never make him pass out candy to trick-or-treaters. Besides, I doubt we'll have any trick-or-treaters to worry about next year. Or, for a century.


End file.
